


Kindred

by Ravelle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Daddy Issues, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Incest, Jealous Solas, Jealousy, Mildly Dubious Consent, POV Solas, Paranoia, Parent-Child Relationship, Parent/Child Incest, Possessive Behavior, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Sexual Content, Smut, Solas Getting Darker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2018-12-10 12:19:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11691480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravelle/pseuds/Ravelle
Summary: Solas wanted nothing more than to save the bearer of his mark, see the breach sealed, and retrieve his foci. Upon discovering who bears the mark he wants more, much more.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> One day I was looking for inspirational prompts and happened upon this gem of a request:
> 
> this is fucked up! i'm fucked up!!
> 
> solas is lavellan's father, through whatever hijinks you choose to imagine. he figures it out pretty early on in the inquisition, but she has no idea (her mother never told her who her father was/she thinks she knows who her father is). she flirts, he bites. i'd like to see a Lot of him fixating on the fact that she's his daughter/how beautiful and talented she is and how he has to protect her from non-elvhen threats to her virtue (bull, cullen, josie, cass, blackwall, etc.). lavellan thinks solas is just possessive of her and she likes it. ideally, she never finds out OR by the time she does solas has her mindset so warped around his that she loves it/gets off on it too.
> 
> bonuses, because i REALLY want to go to hell!  
> -mobuius double-reacharound daddy kink, with lavellan calling solas hahren/papae and having no idea that it's true, and solas calling lavellan da'len/baby girl and knowing exactly how true it is  
> -solas leaving possessive markings all over lavellan and publicly claiming her (doesn't have to be sex but that would be 100% welcome)  
> -size kink  
> -knotting  
> -pregnancy/breeding kink  
> -solas finding some loophole to keep lavellan alive when he brings down the veil and making her his queen/consort and breeding her over and over to perpetuate his line
> 
> ANYWAYS i'll just be over here cozying up my handbasket for my imminent trip straight to hell
> 
>    
> Original prompt located [here.](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/16181.html?thread=62613557)
> 
> * * *
> 
> A quite talented writer took up the prompt but has not been back to it in over a year, so I thought I might try my hand at it. I am entirely new to smut so I'll be easing into it. I also had to google knotting, so um... just keep your expectations low and hopefully I'll exceed them.

Solas can feel the prisoner through the stones beneath his feet, his magic thrumming from within the deep recesses of the dungeon, rising to greet its master. That the bearer still lives is nothing less than a miracle, the mark was never meant for mortal hands. A bitter sort of gratitude eases his clenched jaw as he swallows saliva that has gone coppery, the phantom taste of blood. Probing his mouth surreptitiously with his tongue, he searches for wounds and finds none. Odd. Then again the situation itself is unprecedented, what evanuris would ever be so foolish as to let another appropriate their foci and harness their power, excepting himself of course.

Truly, there is no fool like an old fool, and no fool older than he.

The spymaster, who introduced herself as Leliana, ferries away maps from the large heavy table to search the contents of his pack. First, she inspects the pack itself, paying careful attention to the seams where things might so easily be secreted away. Then, she pores over its meager contents, hunting for elusive signs of intrigue. Solas expected nothing less but cannot decide how he should feel about this development now that it has come to pass; affronted, indignant, amused? His face remains impassive as he silently muses on the correct response to this inevitability. A Templar arrives to determine if any of his scant possessions contain hidden magical properties and Solas focuses on the subtle hum of his stolen power emanating from the cells below. Its song is wordless but soothing; all is not yet lost, not so long as the bearer lives. He clings to his last hope greedily as a drowning man gulps those last few luscious mouthfuls of air before slipping into dark, watery depths.

The Templar gives Leliana a firm nod before shooting a venomous glare at him.

“All appears to be in order here, rather it was before I searched it, so organized.” The spymaster says, her lilting Orlesian accent turning it into something half compliment, half apology.

She motions for him to collect his things and he does so, meticulously repacking the contents of his rucksack.

“My staff?” He prompts expectantly.

Solas watches the spymaster’s expression carefully, she wears a cunning mask but cannot be expected to match his experience at ferreting out weakness.

Her eyes narrow slightly, but she takes too long to consider and Solas shapes his lips into an empathetic half-smile of commiseration. When her pupils dilate, he knows he has won. She turns it over and he accepts it humbly, with modest grace. A promising development, to find a mage sympathizer placed so high within their organization.

“You have my thanks, Lady _—_ ” He trails off, waiting for her to forfeit information.

“ _—_ Nightingale.” She provides. “I’ll take you to the prisoner now.”

He follows her down into the depths of the chantry, the dark flickering eagerly around the meager torchlight of the crude black iron sconces. The fire does little to banish the gloom, and even less to quell the dank. This does little for his precarious state of mind, on this, one of the worst days of a very long life.

“Does the prisoner have a name?” He queries in a hushed tone, wishing to prevent an echo of his voice that would bounce off the stones to reach the cells before he does.

“Not yet, she has all the trappings of an apostate and she’s Dalish. She may be difficult to identify, it’s odd that her presence wasn’t noticed beforehand, not many Dalish apostates would dare to attempt to infiltrate the conclave.” She replies, her tone making her thoughts on this matter clear, she thought the girl either extremely foolish or terribly shrewd.

Dalish.

Solas struggles not to sigh with exasperation.

Of course she would be Dalish, because why not? In for a copper, in for a crown. This day will not be done with him until it has him on his knees it seems

“All the people calling for this girl’s life and the guard is conspicuously absent.” Leliana sighs, “We lost our best men in the explosion, most of the remaining soldiers want her dead and the others are terrified of that mark. I’ll send another.” She promises.

Solas peers through the bars of the only occupied cell as Leliana produces the key, and is horrified when a chuckle almost bursts through lips. Clamping his mouth shut, he wills his shoulders not to shudder with the force of the repressed outburst.

“I’ll need some time to examine her.” He says, setting aside his staff and pulling up a rough hewn wooden chair beside the fetid cot bolted to the wall.

“Of course, if what you say is true _—”_

“It is only a theory, but yes, should she live she may be able to seal the breach.” He interjects, sitting down and placing his pack between his bare feet.

“ _—_ we need her alive, see that she survives.”

The unspoken _or else_ is not lost on Solas who gives her a grim nod.

“I’ll return within the hour.” She informs him.

Lady Nightingale locks the cell door behind her and he listens to her diminishing footfalls as they climb the steps to the chantry proper. Only then does he move into action, tearing open his rucksack to retrieve his penknife. Unfolding it hastily, he clutches the unconscious girl’s hand; singling out her forefinger and muttering a soft apology as he pierces the pad of it with the tip of the knife. While applying gentle pressure, he encourages the bead of blood there to grow.

“Come on, come on, come on.” He urges desperately, soon enough the new guard will arrive.

When he deems the size of the globule sufficient, he bows his head to suck it off her finger, taking care to lap a lick of healing into the pin prick wound after securing the precious drop. Placing her hand back at her side, he does so with more care than he might have otherwise.

Staring down at her he notes their striking similarities, high cheekbones spattered with freckles, full lips, dimpled chin, the prominent aquiline nose. Even her wavy auburn hair is a perfect match to the locks he’d only recently shorn from his head. On his tongue he recognizes his own lineage, confirming what he knew the second he glimpsed her through the bars of the cell. While Leliana searched his bags he experienced the call; her blood calling to his, flooding his mouth with their distinct taste. After ages beyond counting he has sired this lone progeny, she is his daughter.

From a distance he hears the telltale thudding of boots, an approaching guard.  

Solas drops a soft kiss on her clammy forehead and the salty sweat from her fevered brow slicks his lips. They are strangers, he knows nothing of her, not even her name. But she is his daughter and he loves her already. 

 

“Ashalan.” He whispers reverentially, before hurriedly going about the frantic task of saving her life.

 

* * *

Translations:

Evanuris: What the elvhen called their gods.  
Ashalan: Daughter.


	2. Propinquity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See end of chapter for translations.

In the field, in the village, in camp, she is decorous; for a Dalish girl she is practically prim. Solas approves, it is behavior befitting his daughter, especially here; the quicklings are not partners becoming one such as her. In private however, her behavior leaves much to be desired. He blames the Dalish; their twisted narrative of the historical courting rituals of the People caused this. The very notion that beings they believed immortal would subject themselves to something as stultifying as an eternal bond is utterly absurd. Now he needs must deal with the consequences of their bumbling idiotic interpretations of Elvhenan’s ancient customs.

Misguided Dalish chastity or not, she is nineteen and nature has its own imperatives. She has set her sights on him. Frivoling with him could earn her their censure but he had been a bit too vocal with his disdain for the conventions, mores, and people she believed to be hers. In his endeavor to create trust between them, a bond between them, he has done too well; if the coquettish tilt of her hips as she rests her ass on the edge of his desk is any indication. In him, she no doubt sees an opportunity to skirt the rules, a dalliance before settling down to produce offspring for the Dalish. In her, he sees affinity itself; affinity of magic, affinity of flesh, affinity of spirit, affinity of blood. There is no spell to make him immune to her charms, daughter or not, he fears for his resolve as well as her virtue.

Although she only came to inform him of their departure two days hence she lingers, requesting story after story. Guilt compels him to allow her to remain. No, it's not as if he had known there was a child requiring bedtime tales so long ago, he did now though and it made all the difference. It is his penance, he supposes, both a pleasure and a torture. Concluding an amusing anecdote regarding a certain narcoleptic apostate and a particularly cuddly giant spider he decides he has earned his absolution, for this night at least, it is late and the fade awaits. Solas is about to rise to show her out, already congratulating himself on his self control when she changes the subject and so doing, changes everything.

“How old are you, Solas?” She pries, inspecting him assiduously from her place at the desk;  as if discerning his age in his face might be as easily accomplished as counting the rings of a tree stump.

“Has it never occurred to you, da’len, that I’m old enough to be your father?” He returns scathingly, secretly delighting in the perverse irony of the question, pleased for this opportunity to simultaneously remonstrate and dissuade her. Needing to be spared of her continued presence, that torturous proximity, all at once too near and too far.

“Keeper Deshanna warned me about men like you, hahren.” She replies undeterred, her slate blue eyes twinkling with mischief as a slim crescent of a smirk tucks into her right cheek.

Those stormy orbs captivate him, his own eyes staring back at him from another face. Never had he thought to find them alluring, never had that particular gaze, so full of license, looked back at him from a mirror.

“Why do I have that distinct feeling that I am to be regaled with more Dalish nonsense?” He queries tersely from his seat by the fire, as far as he can get from the desk she rests against.

She astonishes him by giggling, bringing up a pale lithe hand to smother it, to obscure her beautiful smile from view. The urge to cross the room and pull her hand away, force it back down to her side is as overwhelming as she is. Seeing her happy somehow contributes to his own sense of well-being, bringing him a pervasive feeling of contentment. Much like her smiles, that feeling is rare. Solas perseveres, overcoming the ill advised impulse, and settles deeper into his chair.  

“Because you are.” She confirms cheerfully, drawing a brusque chuckle from him.

Her cheeks fluster at the sound, making her slight smattering of freckles darker, more pronounced. Had her intentions not been carnal her willingness to please him, to amuse him, would have been all that he could want in a daughter. As it is, he shifts uncomfortably in his seat; his heartbeat drumming in his bladed ears double-time at the sight of her pinkening skin.

 _It is a wonder any virgins exist past beddable age_ , he muses, _when they blush so often and so fetchingly_. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose, in a futile effort to reclaim his fraying focus. These thoughts are deplorably inappropriate, she is maddeningly proximate and unlike the figments her reality is uncontested, she is as undeniably authentic as he. Peerless in her ability to effect him, the figments do not possess even the capacity to do so. Only she is not found lacking, only she is whole, if she truly wished to—

_No._

That single word a ringing edict, quite right of course; she was his daughter, he would not defile her. Not as he had profaned Thedas with the veil, no, he will not desecrate her as well. Little enough honor remains to him, he should cherish what he has left, not dispense with it entirely; no matter how alluring the prospect may seem.

Mustering resolve from the scattered remnants of his focus he gives her a sufficiently bland smile.

“And what nonsense do the Dalish spout of _men like me,_ da’len _?_ ” He asks, struggling to keep his tone nonchalant while thinking of all their distorted mythologies, their sick lore. Under their dubious keeping his legacy had become nothing but a twisted fable, and he nothing but the malefactor ensnared within it.

“My Keeper told me that if a man tells a younger woman that he is old enough to be her father he is pointing out that he isn’t. That in truth, he is offering himself up for her consideration.” She answers unctuously, that coy smile turning into something decidedly more smug.

Solas is absolutely unsurprised to find the Dalish wrong, again.

Even that smarmy lopsided grin she wears, exposing a pointy canine on the right side acts as an aphrodisiac. So much like the one he had worn in his youth; when the world was new and fresh with possibilities, as he had been. It is difficult to harden his heart against her, and he finds himself increasingly incapable of doing so; but the Dalish themselves present a convenient established target so he directs his ire there.

“I was unaware it falls within the scope of a Keeper’s duties to educate their Firsts on the debaucheries of hahrens. Little wonder all they preserved of their own history are crib tales fit for da’saen.” He scoffs, sparing a contemptuous sneer for his own da’sa.

Blatant hurt effaces her formerly pleasant countenance and he wishes he could call back the criticism. The sharp pang of her distress pierces him, as her steely eyes cut him to the quick.

“It fell to the Keeper to instruct me on the wolves and the hallas after my mother went to the beyond. It is not your place to condemn her for it.” She flares irately, hands clenching into little fists of ill-contained rage.

Her mother. Solas cannot even recall the name of the woman who had given him succor when he needed it so desperately; that had borne the incomparable treasure that stood before him, glaring back at him with his own fierce expression. The inability to recall her name, that woman who had bestowed this gift beyond price, seems a cruel treason and poor repayment for the scorn she had no doubt met for bearing the child of a heretical flat-eared stranger.  

Knowing her instincts, his instincts, before she can execute them; he beats her to the door, placing his palm against it, holding it shut as her own hand closes around the knob and twists it futilely. Quick as a thought she turns to face him, even in her wrath, mayhaps due to it, she is especially resplendent; as if fury was just another adornment to call attention to her radiance. The Herald of Andraste, the key to his salvation, so nigh, kissing close and he struggles to curtail his desire to do just that.

“Ir abelas, da’len. Tel’dara, not like this.” The remorse in his voice tolls with sincerity and the bitter taste of regret in the back of his throat stings like nettles, like tears.

_I only meant to turn her aside, not drive her away entirely. What have I done?_

Her animosity dissipates at once, and she appears oddly lost, diminished with its departure. The change is jarring and he scrutinizes her, as close as he has dared since his initial examination while she lay unconscious in the dungeons. Her eyes gleam wetly and he mentally curses himself for his reckless misstep.

“No, Solas. You didn’t know, how could you? It’s not as if I’m inclined to speak of it. She died so long ago, it hardly matters now.”

 _So long ago,_ tragic to think the woman had possibly not lived long enough to see their daughter come into her enviable magic; would never behold the grace with which she wielded her formidable power.

“It matters, you matter.” He murmurs in a soothing tone, relinquishing the door to brush a fallen teardrop from the crest of her cheek with the pad of his thumb. She rewards his efforts with the tremulous flicker of a smile.

Would that he could have been there back then and liberated her from the Dalish that had poisoned her so completely against him. The way she invoked his name to curse her enemies was dismaying. Somehow this caught him unawares every time, abrupt and agonizing as a concealed dagger plunging into his heart. The breathless paroxysm of pain it brought, her unwitting treachery almost palpable in its profundity. She could never know, and yet.

And yet.

“What of your father, da’len? Why did this responsibility go to the Keeper, was he not better suited to the task?” Genuinely, above all else, he wonders what they had told her of his existence, if anything.

The manner in which she examines his face so overtly at his query momentarily convinces him she has finally discerned the truth of her lineage. That she has detected her bloodline in his all too familiar features, their common characteristics that mirrors had no doubt made her conversant with long before she met him.

“I never knew him. Mamae said he was an outlier, nothing more.”

It dawns on him that she has ascertained nothing in his visage that reveals anything but concern, very possibly she has willfully blinded herself to their startling similarities from the beginning.

“An outlier.” He echoes, ruminating on the acrid tang of her mother’s mercy.

The word is greasy in his mouth. The woman had granted him a kindness by not dismissing him to his daughter outright as a flat-ear, a courtesy he does not deserve given the circumstances.

“Nothing more?” He asks, intuiting the answer but dreading it nonetheless.

A small shake of her head into his palm and he suddenly realizes he has been cupping her face the entire time. Nor does he trouble himself to remove it now, instead taking wayward pleasure in the sensation of her silken skin brushing his, indulging in the warmth of her cheek sinking into his consistently icy hand.  

“They never spoke of him, it is forbidden to speak of him.” Her voice scarcely a whisper, it only serves to emphasize the truth of her revelation, and his hand instantly drops from her face to rest innocuously at his side.

 _Forbidden,_ he has only recently become acquainted with the cruelty of the word. Such axioms had never applied to him, not until her.

Solas gives her a reassuring smile as he shows her out. "Then neither shall we." he promises.

It is a vow he intends to keep.

 

* * *

 

Translations:  
Da'len: Little child; little one.  
Hahren: Elder.  
Da’saen: Little ones. (This is very probably wrong, I am unpracticed at creating elven plurals.)  
Da'sa: Little one.  
Ir abelas: I am sorry.  
Tel’dara: Don't go.  
Mamae: Mother.


	3. Idyll*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henceforth all NSFW chapters will be labelled with an asterisk.  
> 
> This chapter would not have been possible without [Quivorian,](http://archiveofourown.org/users/quivorian/pseuds/quivorian) whose tongue is as dirty as his mind. 
> 
> Translations can be found at chapter's end.

For all he vowed he would never lie with one of them, he had; a solitary indiscretion, never to be repeated.

 

“Irenna, no.” Solas murmurs desperately, but his traitorous hand tangles in her sandy dreadlocks, urging her mouth downward.

 

She chuckles at this conundrum as she complies, trailing warm moist kisses from his neck to his navel. Hooking her fingertips under the waistband of his leggings, she tugs them off slowly and he shivers as the the chill from the earthen floor of the antre seeps into his bare ass. Kneeling between his knees she takes him in hand, wrapping her fingers around the thick base of his cock, then licks a glistening drop of precome from the tip. Solas groans and she smiles at him knowingly.

 

“Been a while?” She asks, a wicked gleam in her eyes.

 

“Ages.” He admits, a sensual smirk sketching his lips.

 

“Such a shame to let all this go to waste.” She comments admiringly, nimbly tracing the full measure of him.

 

“See that it doesn’t then.” He rasps, arching upwards, causing the rough calluses on her fingers to scrape his tender skin lightly.

 

Befitting of his disastrous luck to succumb to an archer, but all thoughts of Andruil flee from his mind when she takes him into her mouth. Still clenching him in one hand she pulls back his foreskin with the other, swirling her tongue around the exposed head before sucking him so deeply he can feel the tight warm cavern of her throat. Irenna pumps him expertly, her head bobbing rhythmically at his groin, the muffled vibrato of her lust thrums exquisitely into his cock.  

 

The heady combination of watching her eagerly strive to choke down his entirety and the overwhelming physical sensations already have him hurtling dangerously close to the edge. Solas closes his eyes and wills himself to hold out just a bit longer, not to lose himself mere moments into the act like a greenboy. Irenna seems to sense this, her grip becomes gentler, altogether more delicate and lingering. The tongue that had been hungrily laving his shaft, instead laps at the underside of him tentatively. 

 

The maneuver is a successful one and he reaches for a fistful of her hair to urge her on. The mane he buries his fingers in is different, wrong somehow, not the coarse coils of before but heavy sheafs of silken strands. His lids snap open and there she is, gazing at him from around a mouthful of his throbbing cock, his daughter. 

 

Just the sight of her is enough to bring him over the edge. Solas growls gutturally, his hips bucking wildly. Gagging, she attempts to pull away, but he tightens his grasp, forcing her to take every last drop of his pleasure. His body shudders uncontrollably with the most intense climax he has ever known. The tingling hand, so recently fisted into her russet locks, relaxes, falling limply to his side. Still twitching, his cock drops from her mouth and she stares up at him wide-eyed. Those unbelievably lush pink lips part and a thin rivulet of his seed spills down her chin as she utters a single word. 

 

“Babae?” 

 

Solas bolts upright from the bedroll, heart pounding fiercely, breath ragged. Struggling to collect himself, he notes the rapidly cooling stickiness of come on his skin and bedding, and makes a disgusted noise. Beyond his tent he hears all the sounds of a fresh morning, among them his daughter; humming sweetly while she sets about the task of beginning her day.    

 

Relief and dismay beset him, in startlingly unequal measure.

 

_ It was just a dream, _ he reassures himself,  _ only a dream.  _

 

Yet from the darkest depths of his mind comes another thought, from another self; one he has recently become much better acquainted with.

 

_ But it does not necessarily have to remain one. _

 

That familiar coldly calculating tone. The wolf in him would not be denied, it would have it’s due; in time. 

 

* * *

 

Translations:

Babae: Father. 

 

 


	4. Invidentia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations located in end notes.

The crystal clear waters of Lake Luthias sparkle invitingly under the late afternoon sun. The tall grasses that line its banks sway gently in the slight breeze that sets the leaves of the surrounding trees to rustle soothingly; their soft susurrus the harbinger of imminent disaster. Given his daughter’s disparate heritage this eventuality is one Solas anticipated, but her squeal of delight at the picturesque scene as she crests the hilltop confirms one of his worst fears has in fact, come to pass. Coming to his side, she marks his glum expression, giving him a perplexed look before dropping her pack unceremoniously at her feet.

 

“Finally. Gods, I was beginning to think this lake was just a fable,” she says, kneeling before her pack to rummage through it for her cake of soap.

 

 _No such luck,_ he thinks, as she locates her soap then holds it above her head gleefully, in the manner of presenting a particularly impressive trophy kill. To be fair she has not bathed in seven days, none of them have. Unjust to blame her for her immodesty. Privacy has ever been a scarce commodity amongst the Dalish; who did not bathe in tubs but in any body of water they had access to, be they creeks, streams, ponds, rivers, or lakes. By necessity they are beings of opportunity, apparently Lake Luthias is an opportunity she is unwilling to forego, no matter the onlookers in attendance.

 

Today she has quite the audience, only just that morning they added another member to their ragged band, a Grey Warden by the name of Blackwall. Wary though she be of humans, Solas thought he had caught a bit of a spark between them nonetheless. The way her ears pinkened when the gruff Warden said, ‘Maybe you need a warden, _maybe you need me._ ’ was unmistakable. Tis quickly becoming evident that growing up fatherless instilled in her a desire to seek out much older men, where she might find an approximation of the fatherly attention she craves. As for himself, he shifts his robes circumspectly whilst his daughter slips out of hers, to better conceal his own approximation of fatherly attention.

 

Unabashed, she stands before them, in a sweat stained breast band as filthy as she is. Her hands glide down her taut bare midriff, hooking her thumbs into the rim of her leggings

 

“Am I going in alone then?” She asks, looking up at them curiously as she slides the leggings down her freckled thighs.

 

Blackwall’s dark eyes widen slightly as they take in her lovely body, so readily on display. Whoever the man is, he is entirely ignorant of Dalish ways, Solas fears he is about to get a rather abrupt education. The leggings pool at her feet and she steps out of them, only her smalls remain. All his imaginings, of which there had been many, had not done her justice. She is a vision of youthful beauty, his da’sa, the delicate bud of springtime threatening to blossom. A lithe nymphet come to caper amidst the lakeside reeds and spread mischief among them.

 

Solas’ teeth dig into his lip painfully until he tastes blood, _their blood_. Clinging futility to this palpable reminder that she is his daughter, he seeks to persevere, but it twists and distorts. The blood within her was his, yes, therefore she is also. As the one responsible for her creation, who bestowed the form she cruelly taunts him with, her body belongs to him. She belongs to him. A single throb of his cock corroborates this perverse bit of logic, testing the lacings of his breeches.

 

“I, for one, will be joining you.” Cassandra declares, rousing Solas from his depraved thoughts, beginning the clangorous task of removing her armor. “Hadn’t the rest of you better go about setting up camp?” She suggests, in a tone that brooks no argument.

 

Solas seizes upon this at once, grateful that the Chantry at least proscribed feminine modesty.

 

“I saw a likely spot beneath the waterfall, we’ll make camp there.” He promptly agrees, turning to lead the men back down the hill.

 

Best to be gone now, before the question lingering in his head receives an answer. If the thatch nestled between her legs is as vibrant as the locks on her head or, if like his own, it is even redder than that.

 

Varric falls into step easily, but Blackwall comes grudgingly, with a weary sigh.

 

“ _Beneath the waterfall,_ my ass. We’re camping in bogs now?” Varric complains sourly.

 

“You must admit though, the view is quite something.” Solas replies.

 

“Yeah, the scenic bog; featuring mosquitoes as big as ravens, and leeches as thick as bronto steaks.” Varric grouses.

 

“I believe we’ve left the view behind us.” Blackwall chuckles, his head making a quarter-turn for a last glimpse before heading down the sloping path.

 

A loud splash followed by his daughter’s giggle has Solas picturing just how much of her the Warden has just seen. His nails gouge his palms as he struggles to contain his rage.

 

_Fucking lecherous old bastard._

 

Blackwall lets out a low whistle, “I can hardly remember what it was to be that young. Not a particularly shy girl is she?”  

 

“Are there no Dalish within your ranks, Warden?” Solas questions him tersely, unshouldering his pack as they enter what is indeed, a bog.

 

The Warden hesitates a moment before replying, “Eh, we have them sure, anyone capable and willing to lay down their lives is admitted. But as I’ve said, what I’ve been out here doing is recruiting, and we’ve found it best to send Dalish wardens out to recruit them. Humans armed and armored to the teeth aren’t generally given the warmest of welcomes by the clans.”

 

True enough, but something about the man rings hollow to Solas, this one would bear close watching. Locating a reasonably dry patch of ground, he unstraps his tent canvas from his rucksack, and unrolls it.

 

“A wise approach,” Solas allows, as he erects his tent. “their ruthlessness regarding human threats is legendary, it ensures their survival. Clan life is as civilized as can be expected, the Dalish are a nomadic people. Modesty is a luxury they can rarely afford, their mores are shaped by practicality. The Herald has no lack of propriety, you’ll find, she is simply a product of her people.”     

 

“The Herald of Andraste.” Blackwall mutters gravely, shaking his head solemnly over the shovel he digs a fire-pit with. “Maker, if that girl is a candle mark above 16, I'll eat my shield.”

 

“You're in for a hearty meal then.” Varric quips, pounding a peg into the earth to secure his tent, “Seems I'll be hunting up dinner for one less tonight.”

 

Solas notes the puzzlement on the Warden’s face, the man’s rather bushy eyebrows knit and his lips disappear into his sooty beard.

 

“You’re having me on,” Blackwall scoffs dubiously, turning to Solas for confirmation, “honestly?”

 

“I wouldn’t call Master Tethras honest by any means, but in this he has the right of it. The Herald is nineteen.” Affirms Solas, the only one of them who can count back to the moment of her conception.

 

“I’m honest.” Varric demurs affably. “Enough, anyway. The truth needs a bit of dressing up if you mean to take her out.”

 

“Should you tart her up any further, she'll only be fit for a brothel.” Cassandra contends crossly, entering the camp.

 

Solas regards her uneasily, the woman’s hair is still dry, an unfavorable portent.   

 

Varric snickers, untroubled by the Seeker’s assessment of his character, “Always glad to meet a fan.”

 

Solas is oblivious to their bickering, instead focusing on the task at hand while quietly pondering the enigma of his daughter. Blackwall plainly stated what the rest were too well-mannered to mention. Although she rightly should have achieved her full blossoming by now, her body bespeaks springtide. She is aging more slowly than the figments, but at a more rapid pace than he might have expected. Such a coupling of Elvhen and elf was heretofore unprecedented, a unique aberration, at the very least she is worthy of study. Maturation is not the sole issue on his mind, thus far she has tolerated the anchor well, but eventually _—_

 

“Fenedhis!” He curses, smacking his thumb with the mallet he had been using to peg down his tent, he tests it for flection, wincing as it throbs angrily in response.

 

“Are you quite alright, Solas?” Cassandra calls worriedly from her own patch of bogland.

 

“Missed my mark with the mallet, nothing a bit of healing cannot mend.” He assures her, diligently inspecting the swelling digit.

 

The Seeker steps gingerly from hummock to tussock, crossing the bog carefully, presumably to examine the injury, but only gives it a cursory glance.

 

“I thought we might speak now that we are alone.” She admits hesitantly.

 

Solas looks about the camp and is disconcerted to find it empty, save they two. Recovering quickly, he gives her an encouraging smile. “How may I be of assistance, Seeker?”

 

“The Herald, her behavior; it is shockingly inappropriate.” Cassandra blurts, her formerly ashen cheeks blushing furiously.

 

Solas, rarely shocked by anything, nods sagely.

 

“She’s Dalish, yes, but she is also Andraste’s chosen, this will never do. Should word reach Orlais before we arrive _—_ ” She continues haltingly.

 

_All hope for an alliance with the clerics would be lost._

 

“I understand. The concerns you raise are valid, I happen to share them; the Herald has acquitted herself indelicately of late.” He concurs, while the memory of Blackwall's eyes eagerly devouring every square inch of his daughter's body imbues him with bitter possessive fury.

 

“Then you’ll speak with her? I thought, perhaps if it came from you _—”_  She suggests, seeming unsure exactly how to finish that sentence.

 

 _You_ , meaning another Elf. His brows furrow and he peers at her skeptically from beneath them.

 

“I only meant, she seems to like you,” Cassandra clarifies, turning a deeper shade of scarlet, “certainly better than the rest of us anyway.”

 

_The rest of us._

 

A warming glow of satisfaction begins in his heart, then suffuses him, bringing a slight fluster to his ears. Everything the Seeker leaves unspoken, filling him with pride. Despite the anomaly of Blackwall, his daughter remains appropriately suspicious of humans. Treating with them on a daily basis has done nothing to soften her almost universal aversion to them. Conducting herself with courtesy, but never that ubiquitous lap dog deference that the humans have no doubt come to expect from those they considered their lessers. In this respect at least, it pleases him that his daughter is so arrogantly and unapologetically Dalish.

 

“Ah.” Solas exclaims, feigning sudden comprehension. “I shall see to this then, no time like the present.” He pivots on his heel and strides off as she sputters at his back.

 

“But, she is _—_ ” Cassandra objects incredulously.

 

“As I said, no time like the present.” He replies blithely, his shoulders shaking with barely repressed laughter.   

 

Traversing the well beaten path beside the waterfall, he wonders what he will discover awaiting him there. For all their commonalities, she does sometimes manage to trip him up, leaving him stumbling in her wake. This quality, at first frustrating, ofttimes is endearing. In all of Thedas, she is singular in her capacity to awe or flabbergast him by turns. At top of the falls, the lakeside is a riot of color, the blazing sunset dapples the shimmering lake and the vivid autumn foliage almost appears to have been set to burn.

 

“Solas!” She trills cheerily, immediately spotting him.

 

She swims closer to the shore to greet him, her nude body little more than a sequence of artful refractions beneath the rippling water. Strolling closer he notices her now clean clothes, spread out on the grass to dry.

 

He tucks his hands neatly behind his back, coming to soldiers rest, marshaling his restraint before addressing her.

 

“Da’len.”

 

She mocks his stern countenance for a moment, before slipping the mask of his face to smirk up at him.

 

“Are you coming in, hahren?” She tempts, with a flirtatious twist of her bobbing shoulder.

 

_If only._

 

“I was sent to remonstrate you.” He informs her stiffly, catching himself trying to make sense of her body below the shifting fractured glass of the lake.

 

“Hmm.” She hums contemplatively, before her smirk widens, skewing to reveal that devastating right canine that never fails to obliterate his focus.   

 

“Something on your mind?” He queries brusquely, wiping the smirk off her face.

 

“It just occurred to me that you didn’t answer my question.” She observes coolly,  “Did you truly come here to do the bidding of that shemlen prig like an obedient rabbit, or are you coming in?”  

 

_Rabbit._

 

The epithet and the blatant insinuation that accompanies it hangs in the air between them, their eyes lock, and his hands are already unbuckling the belt that secures his robes. Particularly difficult to fling it aside, when he would much rather be reddening her bottom with it for having the gall to denigrate him with that term, which applied to him is tantamount to blasphemy.    

 

“You think yourself clever, da’len, that I cannot see this for the blatant ploy it is?” Solas criticizes her coldly, shrugging out of his robes.

 

“It doesn’t need to be subtle or clever, it’s effective.” She gloats merrily from the water.

 

The girl has a point, “That it is.” He concedes, forfeiting his tunic to the growing pile of clothes beside him.

 

Turning his attention to his laces, he hesitates, feeling every bit of her arduous scrutiny.

 

“You are unaccountably bold, even for a Dalish.” He chastises her gently, “I know your people’s customs far better than you, it seems.”

 

Swiveling a forefinger midair he indicates a volte-face; she pouts prettily, but does as commanded, and he removes both breeches and smalls in a single downward stroke. Stepping out of them he spies her cake of soap sitting on a rock next to the water and snatches it up before entering the lake. He wades chest deep and judges the amount of space between them suitable, if not respectable.   

 

“I’m in. Remember your courtesies, da’len, eyes up.” He advises, and begins lathering.   

 

Treading water, she spins in a semi-circle to face him, and scowls.

 

“You act as if I’m some uncivilized heathen.” She grumbles acrimoniously, brushing back some strands of wet hair plastered to her forehead.

 

“No. Your behavior dictates my response, nothing more.” Solas argues, running a soapy hand over his baldpate.

 

“I’ve done nothing wrong.” she claims heatedly, temper flaring irately.

 

“Were you not just parading about in your small clothes in front of everyone?” Solas accuses sharply.

 

“You fucking hypocrite,” she alleges so hatefully the soap momentarily slips his grasp, “You were happy enough to leave me behind with Cassandra."

 

“If it meant two less sets of eyes on you, yes.” He counters through gritted teeth, recalling that quarter-turn of the Warden's head as the despicable degenerate committed every square inch of his daughter to memory. Purloining what was rightfully his, if only with that loathsome ogling.

 

“Three, you mean.” She corrects bitterly, swimming for shore.

 

“Was that spectacle for my benefit?” Solas calls after her licentiously, powerless to oppose his hedonistic predatory instinct to fervently track her progress to the shore.   

 

Upon reaching the shallows, she finds her footing and stands to present herself to him. Never had he thought to consider breathing a skill, but as lakewater sluices from her hair to trickle down her lissome body, he loses the knack of it.

 

“No, but this one is.” She teases, giving him the finger, then blowing him a kiss off the tip.  

 

Solas’ mouth parts to speak, but even had he breath for words, they would still elude him. Though not without her flaws, to him she is exquisite. From her brazenly wanton gaze, reminiscent of a storm-tossed sea; to the sparsely freckled handfuls of her breasts, tipped with nipples the precise pink of her lush lips. From those slim hips that taper slightly into the graceful curves of her lovely legs; to the supple waning crescent of her derrière. And betwixt her speckled creamy thighs, what awaits him there is _—_

 

_Redder._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Da'sa: Little one


	5. Desiderata

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations located in end notes.

The panoply of decency abandons Solas so abruptly, that afterwards he will wonder if he had possessed it at all, if he had always been this despicable fiend who wanted nothing more than to ravage his own daughter. Later there would be ample occasion for such academic concerns and speculations. Now there is only her, the manner in which time itself bends around her, nigh impossible to surmise how long he has been mesmerized by the delicate curves and oblique angles that comprise her bared flesh. The subtle hum of his power within her resonates in his bladed ears, lulling him into a hypnotic trance. With it comes immediate understanding of her urgent response to the lake, she is an opportunity he is unwilling to forego.

 

 _Ashalan,_ he mouths the word he dared not speak aloud since she was an unnamed prisoner given over to his care. The word feels foreign to his tongue but also exotic, _ashalan._  Who was the worse man; the righteous one who would leave his daughter behind, forsaking her to Thedas’ imminent doom? Or the miscreant who would place his scion above all others, let her remain oblivious to her true origins and bestow upon her a world beyond her wildest imaginings? A world where she would someday rule, not by ascendancy, but by way of espousal.    

 

The ghost of a smile comes to haunt his lips as he learns her by heart. Perfect as she is, he cannot let the relentlessly cruel passage of time desecrate her. Retrieving his foci, already a matter of utmost import, becomes a desperate imperative. Such a crucial component, the power of creation itself, he cannot hope to preserve her without it. Inside his head he chants the ancient invocations, known only to him, that will someday make her eternal.

 

“Who’s forgotten their courtesies now, haren? Eyes up.” She taunts playfully, abandoning her crude gesture to snap her fingers at eye level; directing his gaze to her amused but vindicated expression, as if a long held belief has been substantiated.

 

Attempting to avert her, now that he has blatantly exhibited the full extent of his interest, would be futile. Doubtless she is already devising countless ways to torture him with the knowledge that he wants her just as badly as she does him. The incessant teasing, the calculated _accidental_ brushes against him; the lingering impression of her intense focus like a caress whilst she studied him from afar. Unskilled in seduction though she is, her tenacity ensures her artless efforts will now be redoubled. Solas doesn’t much mind her fumbling attempts to tantalize him. Such naivety in these matters is charming in its way, a credit to her purity.

 

“You have my thanks, I find myself in sudden need of reminding.” He admits, affecting an air of diffidence.  

 

She snorts laughter, “Anytime.” With this one word all her former animosity dissipates.

 

Coiling her long hair into a rope, she wrings out the lake water fastidiously, turning slightly to flaunt a different angle. A test of his forbearance, with single minded determination he prevails, and she rewards him with an inviting smile.

 

“I suppose if you’ve come to reprimand me you had best get on with it.” She prompts.

 

Feeling every bit the hypocrite he has proven himself to be, he begins.

 

“Little regard as you hold for the Seeker, in this she has the right of it—”

 

“ _In this she has the right of it.”_ She jeers, giving her hair a particularly vicious twist. “The moment the three of you were out of earshot she tried to convert me, again.”

 

_Again._

 

Solas’ jaw tightens, clearly none of them are to be trusted. Even those who wouldn’t defile her body, would seek to contaminate her mind. Bad enough that the Dalish taught her to profane his name, Cassandra would have her deny his very existence.

 

“I was unaware of the Seeker’s attempts to turn you from the Pantheon, but that is not the issue at hand. Should you continue to behave as though you were still among your clanspeople there will be no hope of securing an alliance with the clerics.”

 

“This entire endeavor is folly, they'll rebuff me on ears alone. If by some miracle they didn’t, to what good? Tell me, haren, when exactly has the Chantry improved the lives of the people?” She challenges defiantly, broadening her stance and putting her hands on her hips.

 

Solas makes a grueling effort to keep his eyes on her face, increasingly difficult to argue intelligently as he stirs to her fury, momentarily becoming lightheaded.

 

“What of the refugees, da’len?” He queries softly, a calculated blow, designed to hit close to home. Their circumstances too closely align with her own experience, empathy might serve to convince her as logic never could. “What of their plight? Make no mistake, they will pay the cost of your hubris, not you.”

 

All the fight goes out of her, the right corner of her mouth turning downward, a hand abandons her hip to smooth her creaseless brow. Oddly gratifying, that she has inherited so many of his mannerisms though he had not been present to impart them. On her they are enchanting, inexplicably endearing.

 

Opening his mouth to deliver the words to exploit her weakened state, assure her compliance; he hesitates, ears quirking to the faint sound of footsteps approaching by way of the woods. Heavy lumbering footfalls, the Warden; accompanied by lighter nimble ones, Tethras.

 

“Da’len, get back in the water.” Solas commands curtly, the frantic pulse of his panic pounding rhythmically with their footsteps.  

 

His daughter looks at him, perplexed. “But I —” Comprehension dawns on her face as she hears their progress through the forest, her eyes gleam shrewdly and her lips twist into a diabolical smirk.

 

“Oh Solas, you are good. _What of the refugees,_ ” she mocks gleefully, divining his true purpose, “your altruism smacks of jealousy.”  

 

“We can discuss the finer points of my sanctimoniousness later,” he seethes, “now get in.”

 

She affects a lazy yawn and raises her arms above her head in a leisurely stretch, a bead of water on a pert nipple glints as it catches the light.  

 

“Perhaps some sunbathing is in order.” She taunts lackadaisically.

 

Hot fury radiates through him, burns in his bladed ears, and ruddies his cheeks.

 

“Ellora Lavellan, you get your Elvh—” He slips, and speedily corrects himself, “get your Elven ass in this lake forthwith.”

 

Her tormenting laughter tinkles merrily at this, “I’ll do as I damn well please, do you even know how you sound? I’ve managed quite well without a father thus far, and I don’t require one now. Sorry, Babae, your services are not welcome.”

 

 _Babae,_ beneath the water his cock bobs it’s approval eagerly.

 

“Welcome or no, you are clearly in dire need of them.” He growls through clenched teeth, striding for shore.

 

No one to blame but himself for her defiance, as her father it falls to him to correct her. Belatedly, yes, but he is not a man to shirk his responsibilities, not to Elvhenan, not to the People, and especially not to her. The astonished look on her face as he reveals himself to her, tells him all he need know regarding the inferiority of those elven figments that masquerade as men.

 

 _Someday,_ he promises himself, _she will come to appreciate the difference._

 

Circumscribing her waist with an arm, he hoists her over his shoulder and quickly cuts through the lake, seeking deeper waters. Small fists batten his back, she squeals her displeasure shrilly, cursing him roundly, and tries to squirm free. Slippery as she is, she almost escapes, but her right buttock slides under his hand and he digs his fingers into it, locking her in place. Reaching chest depth once more he hastily drops her into the water, one splash and she is mercifully out of sight.

 

Breaking the surface, she gasps, chokes out lake water and splutters bitterly, “Godsdamn you, Solas.”

 

“You brought this on yourself, da’len. When next I command, save yourself trouble and heed.” He instructs sharply, breathing hard.

 

“Herald, everything alright out there?” Varric calls uneasily from the shore.  

 

Solas spins to face him, “All is well, Master Tethras.” He assures the dwarf, struggling to regulate his breath, moving his hands backward to ensure she remains out of view.

 

Blackwall eyes Solas with blatant suspicion, “I would hear it from the lady.” He demands.

 

She slates herself against his back, where their bodies touch the fire inside her warms him, easing his tension. Gentle hands first skim his sides, then drift over his chest to encompass him.

 

“Just finishing up here, Blackwall. We’ll be down directly.” She confirms sweetly.

 

Varric is satisfied with this, but the Warden glowers at Solas distrustfully before taking his leave, harrumphing as he goes. When they disappear from view, Solas’ eyes fall shut and he looses a relieved sigh. Though no one remains to be convinced of her willingness, she still holds him, with real regret he begins to extract himself from her grip.  

 

“Sathan.” She pleas meekly, pulling him closer, nuzzling her cheek into his skin.  

 

That tone, resigned to his withdrawal, rends his heart. That word, so rare for her to request anything of him in the only language he would have her speak. So few words and phrases remain to the figments, even those, mostly mangled mistranslations, and garbled mispronunciations. But this single word, enunciated perfectly, stills him briefly; such a simple way to impart the intensity of her longing. Indisputable that she wanted him, yes; though young as she is, he never imagined she loved him. One word and its suddenly clear.

 

She relinquishes her hold to tentatively skate her fingertips over his chest, then more timidly down his abdomen. The jagged hiss of his breath through gritted teeth breaks his reverie, and he moves beyond her reach.     

 

“It isn’t right, da’len.” He mutters grimly by way of explanation.

 

Both a truth and a falsehood. Wrong to want her, wrong to need her; but nothing had ever felt so right. None that came before her, be they Elvhen or figment, made him feel as if he had found a home in the cradle of their arms.   

 

“But you want me, I _—_ ” with great effort she forces herself to look into his eyes, “ _—_ saw as much. Why would you not…”

 

The confusion on her face is effaced by a flash of clarity, and her lips part in dismay.

 

“Oh, Gods.” She says backing away. “You have a family, don’t you? A wife, children.”

 

A hand clamps over her gaping mouth. Solas can only surmise that she has done the math, to determine, based on his appearance, the ages of these imaginary children. Arriving at her own handful of years, or near enough to it.

 

“No.” He reassures her firmly, “I have never been what they call, a family man.”

 

An equivocation surely, but no lie.

 

Relaxing somewhat, she considers this carefully.

 

“It’s me, I’m wrong somehow.” His daughter concludes with absolute conviction.

 

Distressing, that she finds fault with herself so easily.

 

_You’re perfect, just as you are._

 

Solas almost says it, but cannot let the chance to press his advantage pass by.

 

“Earlier, you named me a hypocrite, and I am. I had no right to upbraid you, I’m passing familiar with Dalish customs, it was not your intent to beguile nor sport yourself. You only did what comes naturally to your upbringing. You also named me jealous, and you had the right of that as well. I cannot expect you to reject your heritage, it would be unfair to do so, but it would be equally unjust to castigate you for such incidents. I fear I would not be able to prevent myself from doing so. I’m quite possessive, you see; if you’re mine, _you are mine_. For my eyes only, for my enjoyment only. Do you understand, da’len?”

 

She lowers her head, nodding down at her bereft reflection in the water. He closes the gap between them, tipping up her chin with a crooked forefinger, obliging her to meet his gaze.

 

“Do you understand, da’len?” He repeats deliberately, carefully gauging her response to this undue liberty he takes of her.

 

Those stunning eyes, thinly veiled with tears, connect with his own.

 

“I understand, haren, only _—_ ”

 

“Only?” He echoes.

 

His daughter pursues her lips, and a crinkle appears between her brows.

 

“I intended to share my tent with Blackwall until we could return to Haven.” She confesses nervously.

 

Solas makes his displeasure plain, face contorting into a disgusted sneer.

 

“The Warden. Whyever would you do that?” He inquires, letting her chin drop as he tucks his hands neatly behind his back.

 

“The man has been sleeping wild, for a Grey Warden he’s improperly outfitted, have you noticed? I cannot expect him to continue to sleep in the open while we all enjoy the luxury of tents, especially not in a bog , he’ll be eaten alive by mosquitoes.” She explains.

 

Logically Blackwall could share anyone’s tent, but in reality it was not so. Varric, like himself, was not one for sharing. Cassandra would be properly affronted at the prospect of being asked to bed down next to a strange man. As for her, he couldn’t trust her with any of them. Not the overly pious Seeker, who would turn his daughter from him, not the crafty spymaster, and certainly not that grimy old letch.

 

From her expectant and particularly smug smile, he deduces that he has been maneuvered quite cunningly within her grasp. He had to admit, it was well done. Strangely flattering, that she deigned to cleverly contrive such an unscrupulous snare simply for the chance to lie beside him.    

 

“You may share my tent, da’len. Just until we return to Haven, mind you.” Solas allows, feigning reluctance.       

  
She grants him a brief glimpse of that right canine, as if to say, _we’ll see_ , before swimming for shore. Solas observes her surreptitiously and notes with approval that she does not tarry; dressing with great rapidity, as though there are hordes of imperceptible onlookers just beyond her field of vision. A quick learner, his ashalan, a trait he means to see turned to his advantage; she is so young, fresh, and innocent, he has much to teach her.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Ashalan: Daughter  
> Da'len: Little child; little one  
> Hahren: Elder  
> Babae: Father  
> Sathan: Please


	6. Brief Update

By this time a few of you have to be wondering if chapter six is ever going to be written or if I've switched my focus to another project. To make a long story short, I was prescribed an antidepressant that has effectively cut me off from my creativity entirely, this is one of a few unpleasant side-effects. This is not the first time this has occurred during a test run of drugs aimed at keeping me alive, but unfortunately it is the hardest antidepressant to come off of, withdrawal can be dangerous as well as exceedingly unpleasant. I am currently undertaking gradual step down measures but it could take quite a while at my current dose.

I am hoping that as dosage decreases I'll be able to generate ideas and form a cohesive narrative, but after reading others accounts of withdrawal, this is not something I can guarantee. I have not abandoned this story for another, as someone who spent quite a bit of time writing everyday to suddenly have all those hours to fill is troubling. Please bear with me, I would much rather be posting an actual chapter here instead of this deeply personal update. Thanks for reading _Kindred_ , I hope to be back to writing it soon.

 


End file.
